Dead Letter (3 page)

Her look sharpened. “Is he any good?”

“I think so.”

“How do you know? Who do you know that he analyzed ? You? Did you have your own handwriting analyzed?”

“Of course not.”

“Then who?”

This was why Meat had hesitated before telling Herculeah about the handwriting specialist. He knew Herculeah would draw out information that he wasn't sure he wanted to share.

She waited.

He sighed. It was impossible to keep anything from Herculeah. “Oh, you might as well know. I found a letter from my dad. He had written it to me when he left home, but my mother hadn't given it to me. She'd stuck it in a cookbook, and it was an accident that I found it at all. If I hadn't wanted brownies bad enough to make them, I never would have found it.”

“Was there an envelope?”

He shook his head. “No, I think he just left it on the table. It's not very long. I can say it by heart if you want to hear it.”

Herculeah nodded.

“‘Dear Albie'—That's what my dad called me.” Meat paused. He looked down at the floor. “‘D-dear—'”

He broke off and turned away. “I'm not going to be able to do this. I thought I could, but I can't.”

“You don't have to,” Herculeah said. She waited, watching his back. Finally she said, “And you took the note to this man?”

“Yes. His name is Gimball or Gamball—starts with a G and ends with a
ball-I
remember that much. He told me a lot of things about my father that I didn't know.”

He still did not face her.

“Of course, since I don't know anything about my dad, I can't say for sure that he was telling the truth.”

“Your mom still won't discuss him?”

“She says only, ‘Good riddance.'” He turned around, his expression composed again. “Anyway, it was comforting to sit there and hear somebody say good things about my father for a change.”

“Oh? Like what?”

“Well, the first moment he looked at the letter, he saw that the sentences went up at the end and he said that the man who wrote this was a person who wanted to escape routine, that he was excitable and quick to take action, that he was restless.”

Herculeah looked impressed. “He told you all that even before he read the letter?”

“Yes. Then he started out with the first letter—
D.
You know, the letter started ‘Dear Albie,' and my dad didn't close the D at the top, and Mr. Gimball or Gamball said that meant that my father was generous and openhearted. And the way he dotted the
i
in
Albie
with a kind of straight, upward line—that meant that he was good-natured and had a good sense of humor.”

He broke off, then added, “Everything he told me made me wish I was living with my dad instead of my mom.”

In the silence that followed, Meat's mother appeared in the doorway. Both Herculeah and Meat glanced up, frozen in shock.

Herculeah said quickly, “Oh, Mrs. Meat. Hi. We didn't hear you.”

Meat's mother was buttoning her red raincoat, a coat for all seasons. Apparently she had not overheard—or chose to ignore—Meat's hurtful remark.

“I'm off to the post office, Albert.” She held up her package. “I finished my cookbook.”

“Cookbook?” Herculeah asked.

“Mom's writing one,” Meat explained. “That's why she's too busy to cook anymore. I have to have ...” he choked back the word
Slim-Fast,
“canned things.”

When the door closed, Meat sank down on a chair, weak with relief. “Do you think she heard what I said about wanting to live with my dad?”

“No,” Herculeah said kindly.

“Maybe not, because my mom is not the type to let an opportunity like that pass—an opportunity to say something bad about him.”

“I'm sure she didn't hear. You were all the way across the room. I barely heard you myself.”

“She's got good ears, though, and her specialty is picking up things you don't want her to hear.”

Herculeah walked to Meat, her face bright with excitement.

“Meat, I am so pleased with you. This is a really good idea.”

“What?” Meat was still concerned about his mother's hearing ability.

“The handwriting analysis.”

“Oh, that.”

“Yes, that! Where does this man live?”

“Over on Oak Street.”

“Did you have to have an appointment or did you just drop in?”

“I just dropped in. He does most of his business by mail, though. He puts ads in magazines and newspapers and people send in their handwriting and he tells them about themselves.”

“Then he can tell us about the woman who wrote this—and maybe about who killed her.”

She drew on her coat and buttoned it quickly.

“What are we waiting for, Meat? Hurry up and get your jacket. Let's go!”

“Pretend we're having an argument,” Herculeah said abruptly. “Quick, Meat, quick!”

Meat had been walking along beside Herculeah, giving more details of his father's handwriting, when she yelled this at him.

“Why?”

“Just do it! Quick! Turn around! Face me! Argue with me!”

Meat turned and glanced at Herculeah over his shoulder. “Why?”

“Not like that. I said to face me!” She gave him a half turn.

“Why?”

“Now do one of those cheerleading movements with your arms. Like you do when you're mad.”

“What cheerleading movements?”

“You know. You do them all the time.”

“I do not! I have never done a cheerleading movement in my life.”

“Like that.” Herculeah gave a sort of karate chop. “Only you do it more like this.” Herculeah gave a less lethal chop.

“I do not. My arms aren't even capable of doing something like that.”

“You just did it!”

“I did not!”

“You did!”

“I did not!”

Meat breathed in and out to regain his composure.

Herculeah grinned.

“Well,” she said, “at least we didn't have to pretend we were having an argument.”

“Well, that's true.” Meat put his hands in his pockets to keep them from making any more unwanted gestures. “So why were we doing this? I would like an explanation.”

“I wanted us to pretend to be arguing so you could look over my shoulder.”

“Why?”

“To see if there was a black car there.”

Now Meat glanced at the street. “I don't see any cars at all.”

“It's too late now. I'm sure he's gone, but when we came out of your house, a black car was parked at the corner. It had those smoky windows so I couldn't see if anyone was inside, but the window by the driver's side was down about that far,” she said, spreading her fingers two inches apart. “Just enough so somebody could get a good close look at us.”

“Oh, Herculeah.”

“I'm serious. Then when we turned down Main, I glanced back and the car was getting ready to turn, too. That's when I realized we were being followed.”

“It doesn't make sense,” Meat said. “Why would anybody follow us?”

“I don't know,” Herculeah said. “But when I saw that car, my hair frizzled. Didn't you notice?”

Meat straightened with a sudden idea. “Maybe someone's following the coat.”

“The coat?” Herculeah looked down at it.

“Well, it's distinctive enough.”

“Why would anybody follow a coat?”

“Nobody would. Unless—” Meat gasped.

“What, Meat? Unless what?”

“Unless it was the murderer.”

“Oh, Meat.”

“He thought he'd gotten rid of the woman and the coat, see, and suddenly, there's the coat.”

“Oh, Meat.”

“And if it was the murderer—I'm not saying it was,” Meat added quickly, “but if it was the murderer, he knows about you.”

“Yes.”

Meat swallowed before adding the worst part.

“And me.”

The sign in front of the house read:

Herculeah had passed this house many times on her way to school, but she had never noticed the sign. It was half-hidden by grass, as if the man didn't particularly want it to be noticed.

“Gamballi,” Herculeah repeated.

“So I forgot the
i
on the end,” Meat said. “Big deal.”

Herculeah went up to the front door. Meat followed. Herculeah rang the bell and glanced at Meat, crossing her fingers in hope of an answer.

“It's nice to see an old-fashioned doorbell,” Meat said, “the kind you could stick a pin in on Halloween.” Meat sighed. He didn't want to be here. The man might remember him and ask if he had heard from his dad, and Meat would have to answer no. Just thinking about it made him feel worse. He said, “Oh, he's not home. Let's go.”

“He's in there. I hear him.”

“You hear the radio. A lot of people leave the radio on so that burglars will think somebody's home. In motels, people turn on the TV when they go out, rather than when they want to watch something. Ask your mom if you don't believe me.”

An elderly man in a sweater frowned at them from the side window.

“See?” Herculeah said to Meat. Then she called, “Hello!” She gave him a wave.

“He doesn't look very glad to see us.”

The man disappeared. There was another long delay and Meat said, “He just turned off the radio. That's an encouraging sign.”

The door opened slightly. “Yes?”

“We're here about a handwriting consultation,” Herculeah said, pleased at how formal she sounded.

Meat decided to avoid unpleasant questions. He said quickly, “I was here before, remember? With a letter from my dad? You said he was outgoing and avoided routine and had a sense of humor?”

“I charge ten dollars,” Mr. Gamballi said, still not opening the door wide enough for them to enter.

Herculeah swirled to face Meat. “He charges! You didn't say he charged!”

“I thought you'd know that.”

Herculeah said, “I've got ... let's see”—she felt in her jeans pocket—“six dollars. How about you?”

Meat checked. “Two.”

“Any change?”

“No. That's it.”

Herculeah turned back to Mr. Gamballi.

“We only have eight dollars.” She held it out like an offering. “But it's a small piece of paper and I am really desperate. Or—if you'll trust me—I'll bring the other two dollars tomorrow. Meat will tell you I'm trustworthy, won't you, Meat.”

“She's trustworthy.”

Mr. Gamballi hesitated.

“This really is important,” Meat said.

“Actually, Mr. Gamballi, it's a matter of life or death,” Herculeah said, “and I'm not using that phrase lightly.”

“Oh, come in, come in.”

He took the money and pointed to the dining room.

“But don't you tell anyone I did this for eight dollars or that's what everybody will want to pay.”

“I won't.”

“Sit, sit,” he said, indicating chairs. Herculeah and Meat sat across from Mr. Gamballi at the table.

“Now let's see what you've got.”

Herculeah took out the piece of paper and wordlessly slid it across to him.

He held it at arm's length. “I don't like to read the words until I've gotten my graphological impressions based on the look of the writing,” he explained.

“He did that with my dad's letter,” Meat remarked to Herculeah.

“Though the writing is unusually small.” Mr. Gamballi brought the paper closer.

A clock in the hall ticked off the time. The seconds turned into minutes. Finally Meat broke the long silence. “Have you gotten any of those—what did you call them—graphological impressions, yet?”

“Don't rush me. You want your full eight dollars' worth, don't you?” There was a touch of scorn when he spoke of the amount.

“Yes,” Herculeah said.

Meat said apologetically, “I wasn't rushing you. It's just that on my father's letter, you told me right away that he was optimistic and quickly stirred to action.”

“Your father's letter was probably written in his normal handwriting style. That is not true of this letter.”

Mr. Gamballi looked from Meat to Herculeah. “The words are unnaturally close together, leading me to believe the woman was under great tension when she wrote this. I think she usually had a more fluid, open style. Also, there are many breaks and jerks and tremors—here, here, here—that show a lot of trauma and anxiety.”

“Yes.”

“The woman herself was a well-educated, sensitive person, sympathetic and emotional—I can tell that from the slant of the writing—but she was definitely under great pressure when she wrote this.”

He brought the paper even closer and began to read the words. Herculeah watched his face intently, watched the lines appear in his brow.

He looked up, peering into Herculeah's face with the same intense stare he had given the handwriting. “Where did you get this?”

“I found it in the lining of a coat I bought.” She patted the lapels. “This coat.”

“Shouldn't you take it to the police?”

“I have—well, my dad's a police detective and I was going to tell him about it, but he was out on a case.”